The Wrong Man, page 23
‘If there are more terrorists out there,’ Roberts continued, ‘why are police not being more open about this?’
‘I get that selling fear might be good for ratings, mate, but it’s usually better for everyone if you stick to the truth.’
Roberts looked like he was enjoying himself. ‘Are the police asking you to play down the threat of incel terrorism?’
‘Congratulations, Keith. That’s the dumbest question I have ever been asked on TV. I think we’re done.’
Bailey’s hand reached in front of the camera and the screen went black.
Palmer erupted with laughter and Sutton couldn’t help joining in.
‘I don’t think those two will be exchanging Christmas cards,’ Palmer said.
‘In Bailey’s defence, that was a stupid line of questioning.’
‘Keith Roberts. What did he expect?’ Palmer said. ‘Anyway, that’s the entertainment out of the way. How’re you feeling?’
‘Good. Doctor said the bullet was as neat as they come. In and out. Stitched me up, pumped me full of antibiotics. X-rays showing no bone damage. I don’t think I’ll need to hang around here for long.’
‘Out tomorrow, apparently.’
‘You’ve been talking to my doctor?’
‘I’m hoping I can get you in the interview room with me and Blacksmith this morning. Then we’ll bring you back here. I want you to see this out and I want a confession from the prick. You’re our best chance for that because you spoke to Tommy Jordan. And you saw the exchange at the marina.’
Sutton didn’t need to think about it. This was the biggest case of her career so far. She was desperate to see it through. And she was already sick of the hospital’s beeping monitors, juice boxes and bland sandwiches.
If Palmer wanted her to help close the case, she was in.
‘I’ve got you for four hours,’ Palmer added. ‘Then the doctor wants you to spend the night back in here so they can keep an eye on you.’
‘Where’s Blacksmith now?’
‘Redfern. We brought him in around two thirty this morning. Lawyered-up the second we put him in a room and the guy’s suddenly having trouble with the art of speech.’
‘What have we got on him?’
‘There’s the bag of cash you retrieved from the boat, which he knows will have his prints all over it. Fibres from his house and car,’ Palmer said. ‘And then we’ve got your account of what went down at Long Island Marina. The bag of cash Blacksmith exchanged for a backpack. How he jumped in the water when the guns came out.’
Sutton was getting confused about why Palmer was relaying information she already knew. But she remained silent, waiting for him to finish.
‘Backpacks soaked with water don’t burn so well. Even when they’re saturated with lighter fluid,’ Palmer said with a grin. ‘Blacksmith found himself a quiet spot not far from Long Island Marina where he decided to destroy the backpack. But he didn’t finish the job. Maybe he got spooked by more gunfire at the marina? Anyway, somebody saw the fire and decided to take a look.’
‘We got it?’
Palmer nodded. ‘We didn’t save all of it. But enough.’
‘What was in it?’
‘A dress.’
‘Holy shit.’ Sutton sat up so abruptly a pain shot through her injured arm, making her wince. ‘It’s Sally King’s, isn’t it? The dress that went missing from the Sydney Club?’
‘I believe so. Underwear too. We’re fast-tracking DNA testing as we speak,’ Palmer said.
‘If the dress and knickers belonged to King, I’m guessing hers isn’t the only DNA we’re going to find.’
‘I’m now more certain than ever that Sharon Dexter was right. I think we’re about to find out who really killed Sally King. And I’d bet the house it wasn’t Joel Griggs.’
CHAPTER 43
SUTTON
Alec Blacksmith was used to being in control. The man calling the shots. He was patient. Meticulous. And ruthless. Skills honed by years in the military.
He wasn’t someone who usually made mistakes. Not when mistakes could cost lives.
But this morning he’d made a big one.
‘Tell us again what you were doing last night at Long Island Marina?’
Palmer and Sutton were sitting at a table in an interview room at Redfern Police Station opposite Blacksmith and his lawyer, Winston Gaines.
Despite the ungodly hour at which he had been summoned to the station, Gaines was dressed in a sharp pinstripe suit and tie with a crisp white shirt underneath. He looked like he billed by the second. The spidery red capillaries on his cheeks and nose made Sutton think he spent a slice of his wealth on expensive whisky and wine.
Gaines’s suit also made Sutton self-conscious about what she was wearing: police clothing that Palmer had grabbed from a storeroom at the station and given to her at the hospital. Everything either too big, or too small. At least they were clean.
The two detectives had been in the interview room around fifteen minutes and Blacksmith had been answering questions with as little words as possible. A smug look on his face, like he was untouchable.
‘I think my client has already answered that question, detective.’
‘Yeah, he did, didn’t he?’ Palmer ran his fingers across the stubble of his cheek, looking from Gaines to Blacksmith. ‘I’m just a bit confused though. Can you tell me again?’
Blacksmith sighed, like he was getting tired of people wasting his time. He must have figured that if he was going to be charged with something, then it would have already happened.
But he didn’t know about the dress and underwear.
‘I got an anonymous call from someone saying they had information about Tottie’s killer. I had to turn up at Long Island Marina with the money and they’d give it to me,’ Blacksmith said. ‘I know it was reckless. I know I should have called the police straight away, but someone had threatened my daughter –’
‘Who threatened your daughter?’
‘Those bastards who killed Tottie.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us about those calls?’
‘They said they’d do to Hannah what they did to Tottie. They warned me against talking to you, saying they had someone in the police and they’d know.’
Connelly.
Sutton noticed Palmer make a fist with his hand. His only reaction to the reminder he’d had a dirty cop in his ranks. Dennis Connelly. Now dead.
‘Go on.’
‘Then I get contacted by a different man who said he had information about the identity of Tottie’s killer, but he didn’t want the police involved because of his own criminal background. He said he had something that could be used as evidence against Tottie’s killer. That’s why I went. To get the evidence.’
‘Right. Right. I get it. And you were worried for your daughter.’
‘Yeah. Like I said, we’ve been through a lot already. And your investigation didn’t seem to be getting any closer to catching Tottie’s killer. No offence.’
‘None taken.’ Palmer smiled, tapping his fingers on the table, glancing sideways at Sutton.
‘About the money.’ Sutton picked up on the cue from her boss to lead the next line of questioning. ‘Five hundred thousand dollars is a lot. That was the amount we recovered from the boat. You just happened to have that much cash lying round?’
‘I’m a property developer. Some people like getting paid in cash. That’s up to them. I have a lot of projects on the go, so while that amount of money may seem like a lot to you, it’s not to me. And I’ve got a secure safe at home.’
Gaines cleared his throat. ‘My client will be seeking the quick return of that money.’
‘For now, it’s evidence,’ Sutton said. ‘And you took the money to the marina to make some kind of swap, did you, Mr Blacksmith? The cash for the evidence about Tottie’s killer?’
‘That was the plan.’
Palmer’s phone vibrated, interrupting the conversation. He tilted it so only he could see the message, before placing his phone face down on the table again.
‘So, you hand over the bag of cash and they give you… what?’ Sutton asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘You were tricked?’
‘We really are going over old ground here.’ Gaines sat forward in his chair, casually brushing his sleeve. ‘My client has already told you the men on the wharf had a gun and took the cash my client had brought with him and that they shot dead Thomas Gerritsen, Mr Blacksmith’s friend and bodyguard. This is all very traumatic. And I’m struggling to see the benefit of going over it again.’
‘Do you recall seeing me at the marina?’ Sutton said, ignoring Gaines’s attempt to shut her down. ‘After Mr Gerritsen was shot. Do you remember?’
‘I just remember diving into the water,’ Blacksmith said. ‘After they shot Dutch, I was bloody terrified they’d kill me too.’
Sutton had been building towards this moment and she sensed her opportunity. ‘I was further up the bank, by the slipway. I saw you go in the water. Before that happened, I witnessed a man we now know to be Tommy Jordan hand you a backpack in exchange for the duffle bag filled with the five hundred thousand dollars.’
‘The backpack was empty,’ Blacksmith said. ‘I was expecting something in return. The evidence they’d promised. But they gave me nothing. It was a trick to extort money from me.’
‘Where’s the backpack now?’
‘I was so pissed off I threw it out the window on the motorway somewhere.’
Palmer cleared his throat, opening a folder in front of him, sliding a photograph across the table. ‘For the record, I’m showing Alec Blacksmith a photograph of the remains of a black backpack recovered from the Hawkesbury River approximately four hundred metres from Long Island Marina. The second photograph is of the remains of a red dress and a pair of underwear that were inside the backpack.’
Blacksmith’s cheeks dropped. ‘What the hell’s this?’
‘We have an eyewitness who was fishing nearby when he saw a man that fits your description get out of a Mercedes and climb down onto the rocks, spray fluid onto a backpack, before setting it on fire. The witness said they heard several more gunshots nearby and then watched you throw the burning backpack into the river, before driving away. The witness retrieved the backpack from the water and called the police. We have a detailed statement to that effect.’
‘It’s bullshit.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Palmer said, taking a slip of paper from his folder and sliding it across the desk. The fisherman’s signed statement. ‘Anything you’d like to say in response to what I have just told you?’
‘No,’ Gaines answered for the both of them.
It was Sutton’s turn again. ‘Mr Blacksmith, we have reason to believe the dress and underwear in the photograph belonged to a woman named Sally King, who was found murdered outside the Sydney Club ten years ago. We believe the clothes may contain crucial DNA evidence about her killer. Furthermore, we believe it was only Tommy Jordan and Felix Farrar contacting you. Blackmailing you. That there was no other caller who had information about Tottie Evans’s killer. That this was a story you concocted to justify your presence at Long Island Marina with a bag containing half a million dollars.’ Sutton looked sideways at Palmer, who gave her a subtle nod. ‘Why would these men be blackmailing you, Mr Blacksmith? What are you hiding? Did you kill Sally King?’
Gaines reached his hand across the table in front of Blacksmith’s chest, like he was holding him back from a fight. ‘Don’t answer that.’
‘No. I’ll answer it.’ Blacksmith was glaring at Sutton. ‘I did not kill Sally King.’
‘Then who did?’
‘Alec.’ Gaines was furious. ‘Detectives, I’d like a moment alone with my client.’
Palmer’s chair screeched across the floor as he stood up. ‘Take as long as you need. We’ll be in the interview room next door with an old friend of Mr Blacksmith’s.’
‘What? Who?’ Blacksmith said.
Sutton took her lead from Palmer, trying her best to ignore the pain in her arm as she rocked to her feet.
‘James Randall arrived a few minutes ago.’ Palmer looked like he was almost smiling. ‘Sounds like he’s ready for a conversation.’
‘Wait.’ Blacksmith raised his hand. ‘I’ll talk. But I want a deal.’
The two police officers sat back down.
‘Give us the truth, then we can talk about deals,’ Palmer said. ‘But one lie and that avenue will be permanently closed.’
‘I want more than that,’ Gaines said. ‘Before my client opens his mouth again, I want a guarantee a deal will be on the table.’
‘Mr Gaines, I’m afraid your client has been lying to us all morning. You’re not in any position to be making demands.’
Blacksmith tapped Gaines on the arm. ‘I know what I’m doing. I’ll tell the truth. I want to… I’ve been holding onto this for ten fucking years. It’s time.’
Palmer folded his arms without saying another word and Sutton didn’t move. Both were transfixed by the man sitting opposite, who looked like he was about to get down on his knees and pray.
‘It was an accident,’ Blacksmith said. ‘What happened that night was an accident.’
‘Alec, are you sure about this?’ Gaines said.
‘Just shut up and let me get this out, will you?’
Gaines went quiet, recoiling in his chair.
‘We had a private party at the club. Anyone who’s anyone was there. Some of us had dinner first. We were all pretty boozed. Then we moved to one of the private rooms upstairs. Must have been about fifty people. The way it works at the club is you stock the bar with whatever you want and pay for the wait staff. I’d hired some girls to serve drinks that night. Sally King was one of them.’ He paused, like he was watching her walking around in her skimpy red dress, offering glasses of whisky, wine and beer to mostly middle-aged men. ‘The girls were hired through a stripper company, or something. I didn’t arrange it, but I paid for it.’
There was a cup of water on the table in front of Blacksmith and he took a sip, watching it as he carefully placed it back on the table.
‘It started out pretty tame. Then after the older blokes left – the more conservative ones – we stepped it up a gear.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Palmer said.
Blacksmith glanced at Gaines, who nodded. ‘Coke.’
‘You’re talking about cocaine?’
‘I’m not talking about the bloody soft drink.’
Blacksmith’s attempt at humour was met by two stiff faces and silence.
‘Some of the girls were offering lap dances. There were other rooms in the club, private rooms. The girls would take a guy in there.’ Blacksmith rubbed his eyes, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Just boys being boys, I guess. You know what it’s like. Or what it was like back then. Only ten years ago. Feels like a different age.’
Blacksmith was talking directly to Palmer, avoiding Sutton’s stare. Palmer clearly didn’t like it. ‘Go on.’
‘Randy was off his head. He’d had a lot to drink and he was snorting lines with Sally. He took her down the hall for a dance.’
Blacksmith had another sip of water and this time his hand was shaking as he replaced the cup, spilling a few drops.
‘And by Randy you’re talking about James T. Randall?’
Blacksmith nodded.
‘What happened, Mr Blacksmith?’ Sutton said. ‘What did he do?’
‘We had to be out of the club by four. There’s a security guy on the front door downstairs to let people out and stop anyone else from getting in. Cleaners come in the morning. As the club member and organiser, I needed to make sure everyone’s out before I left.’
‘That’s all very interesting, but what does it have to do with –’
‘I’m getting there, okay?’ Blacksmith pushed his fingers into his brow, leaving a dent in his skin. ‘This isn’t easy.’
‘Take your time,’ Palmer said.
‘Two of the girls left with a couple of ex-footy players –’
‘Who?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘The fact I asked the question is a fair indication I think it matters,’ Palmer said, sharply.
‘Sammy Kite and Deshaun Henson.’
Sutton didn’t follow rugby league closely but she had heard of Kite and Henson. State of Origin legends who were paid to talk about the game on television.
‘So, who’s left?’
‘Just me and Knuckles.’
‘Hang on,’ Palmer said. ‘Are you talking about Anthony Jordan? A police detective who went by the nickname Knuckles?’
‘Yes.’
Sutton was thinking back through the list of attendees at the party that night. Knuckles wasn’t on it. But the police report named him as the first homicide detective on the scene.
‘Jordan wasn’t on the invite list,’ Sutton said. ‘What was he doing there?’
‘He came later.’
‘And how did you know Anthony Jordan?’
Blacksmith snorted. ‘Everybody knew Knuckles.’
‘I think it’s time you told us what happened to Sally King,’ Palmer said. ‘Because we’ve got another version of events waiting next door.’
‘Okay. Okay.’ Blacksmith patted the air with his right hand. ‘It was just me and Knuckles upstairs and we suddenly realised we hadn’t seen Randy or his girl in a while –’
‘The girl being Sally King,’ Sutton said.
‘Yeah, sorry… Sally King. So Knuckles and I go looking and we find Randy sitting on the floor in a room down the hall. Sally’s lying on the floor in front of him. She wasn’t moving. Her eyes were, like… they were open. Just staring at us.’
Nobody else in the room uttered a sound and Sutton could see the colour draining from Gaines’s face as he realised that Blacksmith may not have murdered Sally King, but he’d just admitted to covering up a crime.
‘I kept asking Randy what happened but the guy could barely talk. He was just sitting there, crying like a child. He’d done so much coke. And booze. He was off his head. Like he was delirious. All he said was that he didn’t mean to do it, that it was an accident.’
